The Maiden and the Mercenary

by Nicole Locke

  Pulled from thoughts that had no place here, even if her hair curling around her cap was intriguing, Louve inspected the various dishes on the nearest table.

  Turning at the sound of his clattering platters, Bied started and a splatter of soup sizzled into the fire. ‘I don’t know why you keep jumping into rooms. When did you get here?’

  ‘Does it matter when?’ he said. Her complexion was even lovelier flushed from the heat. But more than he liked that, and hated that he liked it, her first response to him was a retort. ‘Aren’t you more concerned with why?’

  ‘If you’re here to inspect my food, it’s mostly done, so there’s no changing it.’ She eased a pot away from a flame.

  Three vegetable dishes, but instead of chard with almond sauce or potatoes with mustard sauce, there was cabbage on one plate, onions on other. And something... He leaned down... Something that could not be served.

  There was meat being roasted and turned by two boys, but there was no glazing of wine or spices. Further, it was fast becoming over-charred, for one boy half slept and the other had twigs for arms.

  At another table where there might be meat courses, there were pasties thanks to the baker, and what appeared to be an omelette with sticks of rosemary. And the dessert table. Tarts with fruit, but nothing else. No pears with comfits, peeled nuts or wafers. Nothing.

  There was plentiful food. Enough to feed the mass of people in this fortress, but the quality wasn’t there. And the smells from the soup...

  He peered over the pot rim. ‘What is the first course?’

  She huffed. ‘Shelled beans. There’s no substituting these either. They’re done now.’

  Beans, but not soaked in cinnamon or sprinkled in thyme.

  ‘Any seasoning?’ he dared ask.

  She stretched to serve another pot and, before he could alter the course, his gaze riveted on the stretch in her gown. Masking his reaction, he adjusted his hunched back. ‘Is there salt?’

  ‘In the pantry.’ She peered into another pot and the steam turned her complexion rosier.

  Of course, seasoning was in the pantry—he wouldn’t expect there to be no salt in a home such as this—but that wasn’t the point. The point of it also wasn’t noticing her too-tight gown and lovely skin. The point was, ‘You didn’t use the seasoning?’

  ‘Do you have the key?’ she said.

  The Steward likely did and that useless man left without giving him one, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was Bied’s reply; quick, sharp with just a bite... A tone she’d used when she was drunken and waving a goblet at him.

  He...liked it. More than liked it. He shouldn’t. This wasn’t the time, the place, but he wanted more of her stubbornness and more of her hair turning curly with steam, so he asked, ‘If there’s no access to the pantry, what of the tarts and sugar?’

  She gave him a sidelong glance, perhaps assessing if he was simple or taunting her. Whatever was in his expression, she turned up her determined chin and returned to her pots.

  ‘Sugar!’ she said. ‘As if I’ve ever seen that. That’s in a chest inside a chest inside the pantry. Honey might or might not have been used.’

  Unsweetened tarts. Perfect. Everything was perfect from the locked pantry to her lack of reverence. To the dear fact Ian of Warstone, as wealthy as any king, was to dine on a lengthy and quite unflavoured meal.

  Louve laughed.

  Chapter Seven

  Bied’s back had stopped protesting hours before, but her feet continually reminded her she’d been on them for hours beyond hours. Halfway through the serving and her mind was wandering from the task. She was used to labour, but that very morning she’d drunk ale and was sick and her stomach still felt uneasy.

  She felt uneasy. Tess was correct, she’d drunk such amounts before and had never been sick. She wondered if there was something wrong with the ale, but if there was, wouldn’t the guards or Lord Warstone have mentioned it?

  Then there was her sister. So much nearer than before and still so far away. The serving of courses slowed the meal, giving her time to cook, to plate such quantities, but it allowed her no time to slip up the stairs and see Margery.

  Dessert was next. She needed an excuse to present herself or at the very least to swap duties with a server. All the time she cooked the old cabbage and onions, her sister’s message burned in her mind worse than the turnips that had to be thrown away. And she was mere steps away! Bied cursed this absurd meal, the foolish Steward and the maddening Usher who forced her to toil at yet another task she hated. But mostly, she cursed those cursed goblets.

  Louve was inspecting the oven preparation for the morrow when Jeanne approached him as a mouse would a cat. One of her cheeks was red as if she’d been slapped.

  He saw red himself before he heard any of her rushed words—that Lord Warstone requested the appearance of his new Usher.

  Louve wanted to bound up the stairs, draw his sword and exact some revenge on Jeanne’s behalf. If such injury came to a young woman, then it was likely other servants were also treated poorly.

  When he strode through the doorway, he waited in the shadows to take measure of the Hall. And what he observed... The guards. They were cavalier at the gates, arrogant in their superiority, but their behaviour in the Hall went far beyond inconsideration.

  Guards pushed, shoved, great platters of food were upended, unruly conversation thrived. Two warriors at a table played some game of strength while bets were being taken. In between the benches, servers were mauled and tugged on to laps. Some laughter from both parties, some shrieking with alarm.

  In the far corner, a man’s back faced the room. His trews were undone and around his knees as he rutted a woman against another half-dressed man. Other men stood around them, cheering or waiting their turn.

  No sword, no men at his side. Louve wanted to defeat them all, but instead he swung his gaze to the high table.

  The Warstone resemblance was uncanny and unmistakable. Ian of Warstone lounged in his chair, one hand absently caressing the cheek of the woman sitting next him, the other wrapped around one of the last remaining goblets.

  He was listening to a tale told to him from a giant brute of a warrior standing on the opposite side of their table. Ian appeared somewhat amused, his mistress...

  Sitting unerringly still, her hands in her lap, she neither ate nor drank. She didn’t appear to be listening, though the warrior’s antics were comically exaggerated. Instead, she actively avoided gazing at the warrior at all.

  She was like that rabbit who knew it’d been spotted by the fox; she was, as well, singularly stunning. Hair the colour of gold, large eyes framed with lush lashes. Lashes wholly unneeded, for even from this distance the colour of her eyes was a mesmerising violet, like lavender made into clear gems.

  But her beauty could not hide the corner of her slightly swollen lip. The demeanour of a woman who had been damaged and knew she’d be hurt again.

  There was a familiarity about her that irritated him because he could not remember meeting one such as she and not doing something about it. However, something about her features drew his curiosity, but that was it. Beauty that she was, she held no candle to—

  ‘What do we have here?’ Ian’s voice boomed out to the crowd.

  The brute immediately stopped and turned; his stance was wide to protect his master. Scarred face, ruthless hand drawing his sword.

  ‘Come now, Evrart, no need for protection in my own house.’ Ian announced to everyone until his eyes locked on Louve’s and then there was a stillness in the room, in the middle of his chest. Thus, Ian’s next words were clear even above the roaring in Louve’s ears. ‘Is there need for protection in my home, Usher?’

  Yes, Louve answered silently as he strode out from the doorway towards the dais. He hadn’t been asked to approach and he refused to wait for it as a servant would.
He did, however, keep the role he chose. That of a hunched usher and one who was not trained with a sword.

  Ian might, through his spies, know of him, but Louve could almost guarantee he hadn’t seen his appearance. Appearing weak, without being so, was an advantage he’d keep as long as possible.

  Ian of Warstone kept the same empty expression so there was no telling if he was amused or angered. He did, however, lower his hand from his mistress’s cheek and place it on the table.

  The woman breathed deeply as the large warrior strode to Ian’s other side. Louve had never seen a man that size before, not even his childhood friend who stood taller than most. If he had to face this man, Louve would be greatly taxed.

  As for Ian, he wore all the arrogant and privileged markings of a Warstone: raven-black hair and the blank stare of a predator. But Ian’s eyes weren’t like his brothers’. Where theirs were differing shades of warm grey, Ian’s were much paler. Almost white and utterly malevolent.

  ‘You’re the one my Steward hired before he journeyed south,’ Ian said.

  Ah, so this was how it was to be played before an audience, with them both pretending in their roles. Fair enough.

  ‘I had come looking for other work, my lord,’ Louve said, ‘but it appeared my services were needed in a much broader capacity. I hope you have found everything satisfactory.’

  ‘I can assure you I am most satisfied with your presence,’ Ian said. ‘Delighted, in fact. It has been far too long since I had an usher and can see the position holds much merit. After all, how amusing it was to be served dishes the way they do in England. To savour flavours one by one by one. I can think of few things that I relish as much as food. This, perhaps...’ Ian scraped his finger across his mistress’s shoulder ‘...or perhaps that thrust of a short dagger in an enemy’s heart come close.’

  The woman wrapped a trembling hand around her goblet and took a drink. She set it down just as slowly, her mouth moving even after she swallowed as though she was tasting something she didn’t like.

  There was much about this situation that Louve didn’t like, but if Ian thought he was as trapped or vulnerable as this woman, he was mistaken. He’d bide his time until—

  A guttural groan from the back drew Ian’s pointed gaze and he flicked a finger to the corner. Without a word, there was the scraping of a bench, the thud of fists, the mad pattering of a woman’s bare feet against fresh rushes.

  Louve refused to take his gaze away from the enemy.

  ‘Excuse my men for their lack of manners.’ Ian smiled at him. ‘It has been too long since they fought and released their...liveliness. You can understand what that can do to a man to be so pent up.’

  He was there when Ian’s men last released their liveliness. His friend, Eude, a fellow mercenary, had been killed before he reached Reynold’s door in Paris.

  ‘In theory, yes,’ Louve replied formally, exacting. In these games, it was best to mimic the other player for it revealed less of himself. ‘But I do not have the penchant that warriors have, hence my duties to serve have fallen in other, but no less meaningful, ways.’

  Ian’s eyes roamed over Louve, who kept his hunched demeanour. Not too much—he could never sustain the ruse—but enough to bely some weakness.

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ Ian said. ‘But I do not believe those duties pertain to the actual food that graced my table this eve.’

  ‘Was there something the matter with the fare?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing wrong with it.’ Ian waved his hand. ‘The meat tasted of meat, the fava beans were shelled properly, but that comes to the issue. I am often gone, but when in residence, I like my privacy and to stay in my rooms.’

  Ian expected him to comment, but Louve inclined his head instead. If there was a point to this banal talk of eating, it was best to get on with it.

  Ian’s lips curved and he continued, ‘Over the years, my cook has prepared me particular dishes a particular way. Masking the true flavours of food with green twigs from the garden and salt from the pantry. Now I can see that was of no benefit. Thus, I can only surmise that it wasn’t Cook who prepared the meal?’

  Louve didn’t trust or like the direction of the conversation. To tell a lie wouldn’t benefit his game, to tell the truth could reveal a weakness: Bied.

  ‘No, Cook felt poorly and thus your staff had taken over his duties,’ Louve said.

  ‘My staff? You mean the ones who served the food, the baker, who appeared to make the same pies? No, no. This fine fare must be your doing, and thus, you must have directed the person to feed me in particular this evening. After all, what usher wouldn’t want to impress a Warstone? Come, tell me who it was, or better yet, go fetch them so I can thank them personally.’

  Never. Not in a thousand years. Ian didn’t wish to thank the person who prepared the food. Ian wished to know who had fed him, to mark them in case the fare was poisoned. To track them, spy on them in case the person was of some import to Louve or Reynold.

  However, if he appeared to defend Biedeluue even in the most insignificant of ways, it would mark her death.

  ‘It is, and has been, one of your staff,’ Louve replied. ‘I’m surprised you have not dined on her food before. For I am new, but she is not and willingly volunteered for this evening. If you’ll allow my leave, I’ll bring her forth.’

  Ian waved his hand. ‘No, no. You’ve worked too hard. I will have one of my men fetch her. Name?’

  ‘Biedeluue,’ Louve replied readily.

  The mistress jerked and the smallest morsel of omelette, balanced on her knife, flew across the table.

  They all watched it fall to the floor except the culprit who immediately dropped her gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, my lord.’

  Ian’s smile and eyes were almost indulgent. ‘No worries, my Margery. Now let’s see this new cook.’ Ian tilted his chin at a guard who immediately strode to the back of the room.

  He burned to warn Bied. She most likely would be surprised and terrified upon the guard’s approach, could possibly stall or deny. He was surrounded by men who could easily kill him and Louve prayed that Bied for once wasn’t the determined, stubborn, courageous, reckless person he knew her to be.

  Chapter Eight

  Raucous noises above her, the floorboards rattling the kitchen timbers. If she stayed still, she could feel the vibrations through her own feet. Bied rubbed her sleeve over her forehead and lifted the last pot from the oven. Not all needed to be cleaned because the fire burned anything off, but a few were worse than usual. What had she spilled?

  ‘Let me help with the cleaning,’ Tess said.

  Bied jerked her head to get her hair out of her eyes. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’m up far earlier than you,’ Tess said. ‘Most of my duties were already done.’

  ‘Hence when you asked to be excused because there was so much to do?’

  Grinning with a wink, Tess grabbed a broom. ‘It turned out well, no one has died from your cooking.’

  ‘Not yet. There’s still your dessert.’ It wasn’t possible to stay annoyed at Tess, but she did lace a bit of it in her words. ‘I couldn’t believe putting me in charge was how you intended to keep me employed here.’

  ‘You’ve been industrious in the kitchens. How difficult could it be to do a little more?’

  ‘A little more! For a sennight, I’ve been sweeping floors, washing pans, and serving food. Regardless of Cook’s...situation, I’ve never fed this many.’

  Cook, whose son had died a few weeks before. He was grieving and lost and hurting. Everyone tiptoed around him, including Steward.

  ‘What will happen with Cook? He’s never not been here at all. He at least arrives to prepare Lord Warstone’s food, talks to Steward about the menu and then leaves. I can’t keep this up if it’s only me.’

  ‘He’ll come...’ Tess’s face fell. ‘I don’t know.’
r />   It helped that Lord Warstone, when in residence, wanted simple meals served to him in his private chambers. Bied hadn’t even seen him. And those few dishes Cook had continued to prepare and serve, which had left meal planning to the Steward. Feeding the rest of the household was a matter of quantity versus quality, but even that took planning on a grand scale.

  She could pull meals together for a little while, but when the Steward returned with the goblets, expectations would be different. This occupation kept her far too busy to reach her sister. It wasn’t in her nature for this much delay and wondering.

  ‘What are we to do with the new Usher?’ Tess said. ‘He’s...’

  Far too handsome? Intriguing? Everything in her said she should and shouldn’t trust him. She didn’t even know how that was possible. He was more than competent as an usher, probably knowledgeable enough to be Steward if he had the proper lineage. Yet...she didn’t know what it was, but he wasn’t what he appeared.

  It wasn’t much, but why would an usher change how to present the food? Why did he ask the questions about Lord Warstone and his guards? If she had to choose between truth or falsity, she’d swear he was lying.

  As for the rest, dark hair, blue eyes. Even with that odd hunch, his build was far too noticeable. Strength without bulk, though he dropped her earlier today...that just made his presence and actions more suspicious to her. ‘He’s—’

  ‘Cook!’ a voice boomed from the stairs.

  Both of them pivoted to the mercenary on the stairs.

  ‘I think he means you,’ Tess whispered.

  * * *

  Bied brushed her hands against her gown. She didn’t know why she was called. The food wasn’t perfect. Perhaps she’d be ridiculed or punished. Perhaps she’d be told to pack her belongings and leave at first light tomorrow.

  If so, she’d sort all that out later. For now, she’d soon see her sister. Her sister! Unfortunately, the guard’s thick back blocked her view when they entered the Hall. Yet, though she couldn’t see, something was different in this room. A menacing anticipation pricked at her skin.